Of Snarling Hounds
by MrCasperTom
Summary: Eaters of Worlds. Known to be killers, creating slaughterhouses of each world they step foot on, their very name promotes fear. But with the Great Crusade approaching a turning point will all parts of this brotherhood of killers meekly follow in the footsteps of their Primarch towards Damnation? Great Crusade/Horus Heresy era story.


Dermot ran through the forest, branches whipping his face drawing blood and sending sparks of pain through him. Yet still he ran, jumping over roots and dodging trees not daring to look backwards in the fear that the hope he had was crushed. He hands clutched his rifle, for all the good it had done him and his men.

He had not signed up for this. He signed up for the uniform, the medal, the apparent glory but above all the pay and the chance to meet beautiful women. Oh and how he had. Fresh tears stung his cold face, mixing with the blood that ran down from his forehead. The image of his dear Lilah filled his mind as he ran, the fear that he would never see her again, never feel have perfect face, never hear her beautiful voice and never feel the contentment he had when he was with her. Image of his daughter filled his mind; barely seven years old had he known that Sacera would grow to be as beautiful as her mother. And yet it knew that sight would be robbed from him if he did not make it out of these forests.

This night had taken many things from him. It had taken his image of security. It had taken his friends. But above it had taken his perception of the universe and crushed it. Far from the image of a peaceful isolation in the universe the past weeks had shown him that there was greater out there. There were other worlds and other people. People like him and his kin. And yet so different.

Yet this hadn't frightened him. It had opened new opportunities for expansion and growth, adventure and glory and amazement. The strangers had brought stories of wonders and marvels. It had sounded too good to be true. It turned out to be just that as well.

They had demanded obedience to the so called Emperor. They said they he sought to unite mankind in a great empire spanning the breadth of the universe. Free from warfare and strife, he sought to create a utopia from which mankind could prosper. This is what the preached. And the price for such a dream was their freedom and their society. Their cultures would be wiped out, they beliefs pronounced false and their very way of life changed. For their own safety they had to give up their own freedom.

Of course this was not how it was presented, but Dermot knew this was what they meant. And so did the Council. In their wisdom their refused the offer by the ambassadors of the Emperor. How could they follow a man they had never seen? How could they be expected to turn over their lifestyle in favour of one brought to them. In favour of a supposedly better one?

It was then that these strangers showed their true colours. They returned to council but this time they were not alone. What was once thought to be an enigma turned out to be but one of many. The blue and white devil who had accompanied the original party came back with many more. Some called them giants, others called them mutant. They called themselves Astartes and World Eaters. Many took such claims to be true. Twice the size of most men they strode amongst us without fear, carrying weapons that reeked of destruction and bloodshed. It was clear that they were bred to be warriors.

They approached with the same offer as before but this time they were tainted by threats; accept the Emperor's rule or be forced into submission. The Council scoffed at such threats, proclaiming that no matter how great such warriors were they would fight back. They could not hope to destroy all of Socaria's armies. The Emperor's offer was great indeed but would not be accepted at the price of their freedom.

Dermot was there that day and say the barely restrained fury in their leader's eyes. He saw how the other devils were itching to unleash their weapons upon the Council, saw that they were angered by the rejection of their lieges offer. But bloodshed did not breakout. Instead an ultimatum was uttered, with apparent distain on the leader's lips as he did. He told the Council that they had but twenty-four of their world's hours to accept the offer or else they will be replaced.

A scream snapped Dermot back into the present. Such a sound; one of pure terror and pain that was so inhuman in nature. Dermot almost believed that it had not been ushered from the throat of one of his kin but he knew from that night's experience that it had been. It was just one of many he had heard.

As the scream died away Dermot realised it was close. He knew that it meant they were close as well. Oh how he wished he had not joined the forces. How he wished he had left when his compulsory service was up. How he wished he had refused to march to the outpost.

The tactics had been sound. The generals had predicted that the World Eaters first target would be the communications of the nations, breaking contact between Socaria's forces and making organised resistance impossible. So platoons had organised at the Alfula River outpost. 100,000 men and women had stood side by side, weapons primed, ready to face any threat that came their way. Or so they thought.

Then death had rained from the sky.

Fireballs had streaked into the defences causing plumes of dirt to fly into their air. The foe had not advanced into the killing ground carefully prepared. It had made its own killing ground. It had landed on top of their own defences.

From these fireballs the blue and white devils had emerged. And carved a path of death through their lines. Men and Women died by the hundreds in minutes, carved to death by the brutal weapons of the devils or reduced to nothing more than red mist by their weapons.

Dermot had seen their armour turn aside bullets and bayonets. He had seen these devils seemingly immune to pain. He had seen friends torn apart by bare hands and men flung off the walls like they were nothing. And he ran.

He realised something as his ran. The communications were not working but it had nothing to do with the loss of the tower. The enemy had somehow jammed their radios. He realised that their aim had not been to sever their communications but to draw as many victims as they could into a charnel pit. To butcher them. They knew they were stronger and they knew they would win. The sought to break the morale of the people by killing as many of their finest in one deadly stroke.

It would work. Once word spread back to the Council and the people fear would spread and people would give in.

It was then that Dermot lost his footing. He tripped over a root and fell face first into the dirt. He scrambled for purchase but found none. His fear grew as he rolled down an incline into the mud below. It was then that he heard footsteps. Heavy footsteps pounding through the dirt. As he raised his head a pressure mounted on his back, as is someone or something now stood on him, like the statues did on their plinths in his hometown.

Dermot knew he was dead. In his last moment he cried the names of his Wife and Daughter.

And the bolt pistol coughed once.

The forest fell silent.


End file.
